


a stop-and-go route the defense never saw coming

by angstysilver



Category: American Football RPF
Genre: Implied Odell Beckham Jr./Eli Manning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 14:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20211076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstysilver/pseuds/angstysilver
Summary: Odell pauses for a full minute.  He likes Baker. His skills as a player are basically beyond reproach but the starting quarterback is also generally a pretty great guy.  He’s just not sure that they’re at the stage where they show up at each other’s houses unannounced just yet.





	a stop-and-go route the defense never saw coming

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how I got here. Please send help! I'm minding my own business watching the preseason games and THIS came into my head. 
> 
> Disclaimer.  
This is a work of fiction and was written for fun. To my knowledge, none of the events written below have ever actually happened.

This whole _thing_ starts because he and Eli are at the airport at the same time.

The short trip to LA has left him exhausted and he’s actually looking forward to heading back to the relative peace of Ohio. They notice each other at the same time that the media does and they live in an era where it would cause far more speculation to graciously bow out of the photo opportunity than to just suck it up and smile at the camera with their arms slung artfully around each other. The plane is in the air before his hands stop shaking and he’s able to take a full breath again. Practicing his calming exercises, Odell wills his mind to blankness before mental and emotional fatigue pull him into a restless slumber for the rest of the trip.

The picture is all over the internet by the time he lands. He has several notifications from friends and acquaintances and a few missed calls from his mama. They talk during the drive to his condo and for another hour while he unpacks and settles back into his space. She pours her love and unending support into the conversation until Odell feels it filling the corners of his bedroom. He allows it to cocoon him and make a valiant attempt to chase away the insecurity and self-deprecation. He feels almost like himself again by the time they hang up - less like his body has turned itself inside out. Taking his mama’s advice, he switches his phone to Do Not Disturb and turns off the wifi. He’s trying to decide between taking a bath and finding something to eat when the doorbell rings and the facial recognition security system announces that Baker Mayfield is at his door.

Odell pauses for a full minute. He likes Baker. His skills as a player are basically beyond reproach but the starting quarterback is also generally a pretty great guy. He’s just not sure that they’re at the stage where they show up at each other’s houses unannounced just yet. 

Baker’s expression is unreadable when he opens the door. They stare at each other for at least thirty seconds before the other man asks if he can come in with a quiet smirk curling at one edge of his mouth. It’s then that Odell remembers his southern hospitality, hastily inviting the other man into his home and offering him a drink while ushering him towards the brightly-lit kitchen.

Baker perches himself on one of the leather bar stools tucked under the marble countertop. “Are you okay?” He asks while Odell gets them both some water.

Shrugging nonchalantly, Odell nods. “Yeah, man, I’m good.” He places the water on the counter in front of his quarterback and tries not to fidget under the younger man’s scrutiny.

He’s just staring at him with his head cocked slightly to the side, expression open but dark eyes laser-focused - appraising. “You don’t have to lie,” he finally says in a quiet, reassuring tone.

Odell stiffens at the accusation, despite the lack of an accusatory tone. “What?” The edge to his voice probably does nothing to reinforce his previous statement that nothing is wrong.

Baker is completely unfazed. “Seeing him again couldn’t have been easy. You can say you don’t want to talk about it right now - that’s okay. But you don’t have to lie, not to me.”

The desire to lash out swirls up in his chest with such voracity that he is forced to clench his jaw to keep it down. The words are balanced right on the tip of his tongue. Who is this kid to come here uninvited and make all these assumptions about he and Eli? He doesn’t know anything. He can’t know anything - so few people know what really went down between he and his former QB. And here comes this guy, barely more than a rookie, and he thinks Odell is going to just what, spill his guts to him?

But, no. That isn’t accurate because looking at him now, Odell can see that Baker Mayfield has never been a rookie a day in his life - on or off the football field. And he’s still watching Odell, eyes gliding over his face, cataloguing each of the micro-expressions that appear and vanish while Odell cycles through his thoughts and emotions.

Swallowing thickly, Odell ducks his head, shying away from the intense analysis. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbles, fingers flexing in the slick condensation of his water glass.

Baker makes a humming sound at the back of his throat and out of his periphery Odell can see him sliding off the barstool and stalking around the edge of the island. The two inches Baker has on him become incredibly obvious with him standing so close - close enough for Odell to feel the insane amount of heat his body naturally produces and smell the musky sandalwood scent of the soap clinging to his skin. Baker’s calloused fingers are surprisingly soft as they guide his jaw upward until he’s forced to meet those milk chocolate eyes. They’re still appraising him, but the gaze no longer feels as piercing, now more like a caress, as it sweeps over every inch of his face.

It’s an intimate moment and if he were thinking clearly, he would create some space between them, demand to know what the hell Six thinks he’s doing here. But he isn’t thinking clearly, he isn’t thinking at all. He’s caught up in this Baker vortex and he isn’t fighting it. Baker is the one who breaks the moment, which makes sense considering he’s been in control since Odell opened the door.

His large palm slides down to cup the base of Odell’s neck, and it’s a steady, controlled pressure that keeps him grounded to the tiles of his kitchen floor. He leans back slightly, lips quirking in a crooked grin that make Odell’s knees lock. “I figured you might say that,” he murmurs low, like he thinks speaking at regular volume might spook the receiver. He probably isn’t wrong. “Which is why we’re going to watch Iron Man.”

Surprised laughter bubbles up from Odell and it shocks him so much that he brings the back of his hand up to stifle it. The protective numbness in which he had wrapped himself in the airport and the heavy fog that has cloaked him since Baker arrived suddenly lift and he feels like he really could float away if Baker’s warm palm wasn’t tethering him to the Earth.

Baker doesn’t comment when Odell tells him that the wifi is off. He just gives him a soft look, and powers up Netflix on the large screen of his smartphone. He props it up on the stack of sports magazines on Odell’s coffee table and makes himself comfortable on the large sectional. Odell is asleep before Tony Stark builds his new suit and wakes up the next morning drooling through the fabric of Baker’s t-shirt.

The quarterback is awake, scrolling through his emails with one hand and the other a scorching brand on the skin of Odell’s back, crept under the fabric of his own shirt. Odell shoots up so fast that the room spins for a terrifying moment until there’s a firm grip on his biceps and he’s being lowered to sit back on the couch. Baker’s face is looming over him when he opens his eyes again, brows pulled tightly together and the corners of his mouth pulled down.

“Stop freaking out,” he commands in the same voice he uses when he’s leading on the field. It leaves no room for argument and Odell finds his breaths getting deeper and his heart rate slowing almost against his will. He is completely unnerved to find that his own body has betrayed him for the star quarterback. Baker’s thumbs are stroking his biceps soothingly. “That’s good,” he rumbles. And damn it if Odell doesn’t internally preen at the praise for being able to sit upright without assistance.

Neither of them speak when Baker pulls away to rummage through Odell’s refrigerator like he owns the place. He’s pulling out breakfast fixings and Odell decides that he clearly has things under control, as usual. He takes a long shower, washing away the weariness and oddity of the previous day. He returns to the kitchen in fresh practice clothes to find two plates heaping with food and Baker leaning against the counter with his large arms crossed over his broad chest. He’s back to appraising.

“You look better.”

Odell isn’t sure how to respond. He can’t imagine what he must have looked like when Baker arrived, but he certainly feels better. “Um, thanks,” he says as he sidles up to the plate closest to him, not bothering to specify whether the gratitude is for the compliment, food, or just everything. Baker doesn’t push the issue and just tucks into his own food with enthusiasm.

It turns out that Baker brought his practice clothes in a duffel bag that Odell never even noticed. He has a fleeting thought about how presumptuous that is but doesn’t comment on it while Baker gets ready. They head to practice in separate cars. Throughout the day Odell thinks a lot about how strange it is that they never really discussed what the hell Baker was doing at his house, but not once does he allow himself to consider just how natural the entire experience felt.

oOo

Things continue that way well into the season. An incomplete pass, a fumble, some especially harsh words at the line of scrimmage, and Baker will somehow instinctively know when Odell needs him. He has some weird sense that tells him when Odell is sinking into himself, when the confident hunger he shows the world becomes a facade to hide the gnawing insecurity and doubt. When he gets sucked so deeply into the shredding words of the media scrolling across his phone that he misses a meal or two. Without fail, Baker shows up at his door. He snatches his phone from his numb fingers and shoots his mom a text before “Media Proofing” the house - switching his phone to DND and shutting off the wifi. More times than not, they end up watching a movie on Baker’s unlimited data plan or playing one of Odell’s old school video games until they pass out.

Odell both loves and hates these nights. Loves them because they always manage to peel back the heaviness that settles in his body and mind, but hates them because there is something naggingly familiar about them. He’s embarrassed at how long it takes him to figure out that this is disturbingly similar to how he and Eli started, back when Odell was a rookie trying to tread water during his instant stardom and Eli was a weathered veteran with invaluable tricks of the trade. Once he realizes it, though, Odell is instantly uncomfortable and he tries to call Baker on it the next time he shows up at his door.

“I’m the veteran player here. You do realize that, right?” He asks with just enough irritation in his voice to let Baker know he isn’t playing around.

The other man pauses in his living room, duffle bag resting solidly at his feet, putting down roots for the night. “Not on my team you aren’t,” he replies, with a challenging glint in his eyes.

Coming from anyone else, it would have sounded unforgivably cocky and egotistical, and Odell would have told them off faster than they could draw their next breath. But it isn’t like that with Baker; Odell can tell he doesn't mean it that way. This isn’t a power play. He isn’t sure _what_ this is, but he knows it isn’t that. So he makes the decision to lay things out there, let Baker know what this _can’t_ be. Or, at least he makes an effort to communicate that.

__

__

“B, I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t do that again. I just, I can’t-” He chokes on a breath and tears are blurring his vision and he can’t stop repeating himself. 

Baker’s in his space between one watery blink and the next. His face is impossibly close and he’s got both of Odell’s cheeks cupped in his large, capable palms. He shushes him comfortingly and brings their foreheads together. “I’m not him, Dell. I’m not going to do that to you,” he whispers, naturally booming voice softer than Odell has ever heard it. 

One day, Odell is going to have to ask what and how Baker knows so much about his off-field history with Eli, but today isn’t that day. Not when he can’t stop his body from trembling and hot tears are spilling down his cheeks faster than they can be swiped away by the quarterback’s rough thumbs. 

“It’s okay,” he reassures, pulling back to look Odell in the eye. “Just let me do this. Let me take care of you, sweetheart.” 

His breath hitches at the endearment and he’s surging up to press their lips together even before it becomes a conscious thought. Baker’s lips are soft but slightly chapped. He kisses him back immediately, like he isn’t surprised in the least bit that they ended up here. One of his hands slides down to cup the back of Odell’s neck, quieting the desperation of his movements. They settle into a slow, languid exploration and it’s nothing like it was in Jersey, nothing like anything he’s ever experienced in his life. It’s both soothing and inciting - both an arrival and departure. He’s sinking and rising at the same time, guided by Baker’s steady hands and sure footing. 

He’s finally home. 

End. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sigh, OBJ. Love his individuality and confident self-expression. But I like to think he needs a little catching every once in a while.


End file.
